


Starving

by stormxpilotxtrash



Series: why the hell not [2]
Category: Equals (2016), Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Altered Mental States, Alternate History, Ancient History, Art, Brainwashing, Crossover, Drawing, Emotionally Repressed, Emotions, Food, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Sensory Deprivation, Suicide, Touch-Starved, kinda slow burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-04
Updated: 2017-04-10
Packaged: 2018-10-14 06:34:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10530900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stormxpilotxtrash/pseuds/stormxpilotxtrash
Summary: This is a message from the Collective. Are you overly tired? Or experiencing increased sensitivity? Maybe you have difficulty concentrating. You may have S.O.S. or, Switched On Syndrome.an Equals (2016)!AU because why the hell not.###“I shall give you hunger, and pain, and sleepless nights. Also beauty, and satisfactions known to few, and glimpses of the heavenly life. None of these you shall have continually, and of their coming and going you shall not be foretold.”- Howard Lindsay





	1. hunger, pain, and sleepless nights

**Author's Note:**

> This is my beautiful baby child fic. I've started and stopped writing this about 4 times since January and I'm finally ready to share with you crazy awesome AO3 peeps. After receiving positive feedback from my Stormpilot fics, I felt it was time to branch a little more. I love YOI and Equals, and I don't know when to stop, so obviously this was the only way to go. I love crossovers that don't seem obvious, but in the end totally compliment each other, and I think this is that sorta deal, you know? Anyways, HOPE YOU LIKE IT! 
> 
> \- stormxpilotxtrash <3

Victor likes to think about how the Founders described the sensation that is coming awake (what they dubbed “waking up”): like being lifted from a deep ocean or darkness, slowly, slowly. Victor would like to understand what they mean but he finds that he cannot. For he does not so much “wake up”, as he does regain consciousness. There is nothing “up” about it. His eyes are closed and then they are open and that is that. Just like now, where he is lying bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling. It takes him exactly 19 seconds to orient himself before his pushing himself from the perfectly shaped mattress and starting the day.

He pads barefoot across the hard, sturdy floors of his apartment, clad in nothing but the nondescript sleeping shirt and trousers afforded to him by the Collective. Just like everything else. Victor yawns and something stirs inside his chest. He pauses for a moment, before shaking off the odd sensation. Mornings were . . . not his favorite. 

Victor opens the sliding door of his kitchen cupboard just as it deposits First Meal into the empty space. He stares and doesn't know what makes him do it. Victor picks up the warm bowl and eating utensil, fingers flexing over its smooth surface, and sits on the stool by the counter, tucking in. He freezes once the first bite meets his tongue. This is the same food everyone in the Center is eating right now, the same food they eat every other day. So why now does it taste so . . . so . . .

He can’t describe it. 

He lifts up the bowl and reads the iD on its bottom: Katsudon - Pork Cutlet. He's definitely eaten it before . . . Perhaps they have changed the recipe. Victor gives a little hum and goes to take another bite only to realize that the bowl is empty; He has already finished his First Meal. Something inside stirs once more, a tug at the pit of his stomach. He ignores it.

 

########

 

“All trains departing lower levels.” A serene voice calls from somewhere above. Victor walks at a calm, but brisk pace, appreciating the light fabric of his clothing in the crowded Center. The collar of his shirt, while tight, does not restrict movement, and the same can be said of his pants and blazer. He makes his way to the train station, which takes him to work in the mornings and brings home in the afternoon. He steps up to the iD scanner at the same time a younger man does. 

The man (or rather, the boy, once Victor gets a look at him) has porcelain skin and blonde, almost white, hair in the dim lighting. He seems to vibrate with an invisible energy: His shoes tap against the marble floors and his breaths come in quiet, but short gasps. 

He's in a hurry, that much is obvious, but where he is trying to go is a mystery. A Member his age should know that Education does not begin until 7 o'clock, and it was well before 6. Something is not right here.

“After you.” Victor murmurs.

“Thank you.” The boy mutters as he bumps his wrist against the scanner, hastily. And then he runs off, his slight form a stark contrast to the relaxed and well-mannered citizens he darted through. Victor glances at the boy’s iD before it disappears - “Plisetsky, Yurio” it says repeatedly, with a flashing visual over his stoic picture: STAGE 3

Oh.

He ignores the drop in his stomach once more.

Victor slides his wrist against the iD scanner (“Nikiforov, Victor”), which chirps melodically, harmonizing with the rings and chimes of the scanners all over the Center.

########

“The Collective runs by everyone doing their part.” A screen at the train stop proclaims. It depicts images of the Center’s various offices and Hubs, the screen flickering to show authoritative Members going about their daily routines. However, Victor had noticed over the past couple days that this particular screen was malfunctioning, and was thus nonplussed when its audio fell out of sync with the surrounding displays. It did create a rather unpleasant cacophony of messaging, though, and he had to resist the strong urge to cover his ears.

“Health and Safety is here to help. Report suspicious activity to Health and Safety.”

“Health and Safety is here to help. Just look for the black and white vests.”

“Health and Safety is here to help. See your doctor regularly.”

“Health and Safe-”

Victor is very visibly wincing by the time the North train rolls around, but he swallows the expression once he steps on. He settles into the heavily cushioned seat with a small sigh. Another screen, this time holographic, loads in front of him; the same serene voice, with the same morning update and reminder, and sounding more like an advertisement than a PSA. Victor looks out the window for a while, watching the scenic buildings and grass and flowers whiz past, just barely registering the cheery ping of holo-screen signaling his stop. Before the train slows to a stop he watches the last of the commercials:

“This is a message from the Collective. Are you overly tired? Or experiencing increased sensitivity? Maybe you have difficulty concentrating. You may have S.O.S. or, Switched On Syndrome.” 

########

The GPF History Maker Bureau is a picturesque pillar of a building at the North end of the Center. It stood to this day as the tallest and most architecturally revered facilities in this hemisphere with completely impenetrable, yet light, glass windows and inner walls. It boasted a whopping 156 stories, each one dedicated to a different way of actualizing the history of the Founders.

Victor worked in the Cultural branch (on the 24th floor) in Illustration. The occupation consisted of illustrating the cultures and activities of the many ancient civilizations the Founders created, as described by Translation. 

The ways of the Founders were fascinating and rich, and Victor enjoyed bringing them to life. Last year’s section had been Foods, a segment that had been so successful, The Center integrated the most popular dish from each country into the Meal Itinerary in congratulations. Victor had drawn most of the Russian delicacies (Russia: A snowy and resilient country that he thinks he’d very much enjoy), like “Pirozhki”, with his Translation partner, Mila Babicheva. 

But once, when Minako Okukawa was called out for Conception Duty, he made an Illustration for the now renowned dish, “Katsudon”, from a country called Japan (such a pleasant little island). That was when he met Minako’s Translation partner, Yuuri Katsuki.

Yuuri Katsuki is . . . difficult to describe. When they worked together, he barely spoke, which was odd for Victor, because Mila didn't seem to know when to close her mouth. In fact, the only reason Victor knows what Yuuri’s voice sounds like is by listening to his Audio Translations on their shared subject. He voice was quiet and stuttering when speaking face-to-face and during GPF meetings, but via recording, it was always strong and sure, comfortable. Yuuri always had the longest Translation files (which, to be honest, was not the best for Minako) because he could go on and on about the intricacies of the smallest things, like he didn’t want to neglect a single detail, lest the entire Illustration be ruined. 

The other Illustrators had seriously dreaded being paired with Katsuki, except perhaps, Phichit Chulanont who didn't seem to mind him much during their Animal feature two years ago. They seemed to share a mutual interest in the especially precocious “Puppies” and “Hamsters”, though no one else seemed to understand it. 

However, this year’s section was different; everyone found some form of enjoyment in it. The higher-ups at GPF had informed every branch that they were looking into the more modern forms of history, which in the Cultural case, involved “International Sport”. They selected 2 events for the current year and next year and they were shaping up to be the best feature yet. Next year’s section was a game called “Futbol”, but this year . . .

This year was “Figure Skating”.

While Victor had always respected the Founders, the Collective made a point of reminding its members of their inferiority, both technologically and socially. But, he just could not see how that was true when they possessed such an amazing thing as skating. It was truly indescribable, the sport. Victor considered himself privileged to be able to bring it to his peers in the Collective. 

After sending brief nods and waves of greeting to the other Illustrators, specifically his neighbors, Guang-Hong and Leo, Victor sat down at his Interface. He leaned over to glance at the Interface opposite his, where Mila was hard at work, mumbling Lost Words under her breath. She glanced downward long enough to return Victor’s small grin of “Hello.”, before turning her fierce gaze to the screen. Victor sat back again, sinking into the plump chair with a comfortable familiarity he reserved only for this chair, this safe place. It was at his Interface where Victor identified most with the Founders called “peace”. Victor yawns quietly behind his hand before plucking his EditPen from its port and setting out to draw his peace.

He imagined his skater floating, gliding along the ice he seemed to live on, dark skates carving through the even lighter surface with knife-like precision. From those skates stemmed long legs, lean and lithe (Victor was especially careful when drawing the skater’s frame - too bulky, and the skater could never glide as the he pictured) and twisted in a complicated turn, called the “Quadruple Flip”.

The ensemble was based off of the many Audio Translations Mila provided him and the salvaged images from the Founders themselves. The style he drew was a popular one, what with the form-fitting cut and the sheer torso and chest pieces (he found his little skater to be the daring type, the type of daring Victor was when he slept).

Victor carefully added little “sequins” and “sparkles” around the gemstones that littered the skater’s midsection, and was overwhelmed by a sudden and intangible squeezing sensation in the pit of his stomach; Victor would very nearly be done with his little skater. For the first time, he found that he was not looking forward to finishing his Illustration and saying goodbye yo what could easily be the best thing Victor had ever drawn. He cast about for something, anything to add, settling on the athlete’s face and the smooth patch of nothing that lied there, just beneath his skater’s slicked, dark brown hair.

Faces were not exactly required in Historical Illustration as they already possessed plenty of photos and Illustrations of the average features of a Founder. Like other Illustrators, Victor usually didn't see the use of them: they often took more time the entire body itself to get right and there was no information to be gleaned from the eyeballs of someone who was long gone. But there, in that moment, Victor knew that the face would be the only thing that mattered. 

Without any hesitation, Victor adjusted his grip on his EditPen and set to work. He drew and drew some more, than erased the whole thing when it wasn't just right. He found himself thinking of Yuuri and his unabashed perfectionism in that moment and soon, the other man was all he could think about. Victor cast a curious glance in the Translator, who was deep in his work. He found himself glued to the way Yuuri’s brows came together in focus while he wrote. It was odd, the things that could draw one’s eye, but Victor found he couldn't look away from the set in Yuuri’s jaw . . . the swell of his cheeks . . . purse of his lips . . .

Victor noticed with a start that he was drawing again and before he knew it, his little skater was Yuuri Katsuki, pictured with an attention to detail that he hadn't even known he was capable of.

His eyes widened. He couldn't turn this in. Yakov surely wouldn't appreciate an Illustration modeled after another History Maker and he couldn't do that to Yuuri, who so obviously disliked unnecessary attention. But . . . Victor just could not find it in himself to destroy it. Not his little skater. So, he archived the Illustration and began from scratch. Perhaps, the drawing could be his, alone. 

Victor was halfway through with his (faceless) skater when Yakov called for the GPF meeting. No doubt, Victor would get a tongue lashing for his slow progress, but his tiny creation was worth it. Even thinking about made Victor’s fingers itch with the urge to add even more details to the Illustration, to make the skater breathe as Victor did. He sighed and placed his EditPen in its port. Another time.

########

GPF meetings were, in a word, dull. When Victor wasn’t droning off the details of his Illustrations and receiving feedback from Mila, he was twiddling his thumbs while the others did the same. It was probably the one thing he could say he truly disliked about being the History Maker: the overwhelming sense mundanity. Mila gave took her seat next to him with a curt nod of greeting, her brownish-red bob licking at her jawline.

History Maker partnerships always sat side-by-side during these meetings, to allow for better, more efficient communication and to give the Translator the best view of their partner’s Illustrations. Beside Victor and Mila, sat Guang-Hong Ji and Translator, Leo de la Iglesia. They were the youngest History Makers, stuck together ever since their stellar feature on “Music” 3 years ago. Across the table, Michele Crispino took up residence, fixing his auburn hair so it sat just so. His Illustrator, Emil Nekola joined him not long after with his tiny, ever-present grin making his blue eyes stand out all the more from beneath his sandy-blonde bangs. Soon, Yakov joined them and their small troupe was complete. 

While a majority of the GPF worked to document the Founder’s history, the branch managers set about immortalizing the present. The Cultural manager, Yakov Feltsman was primarily an Illustrator, and thus the Translators he supervised took turns organizing features for him. Seeing as the season for Space-Travel was coming to a head, all of the pieces from the past few weeks detailed the many exploratory missions of the Collective. Yakov was a rather gruff man however and it wasn’t soon until Space-Travel Illustrations began to lose their luster. 

“This image shows nishigori 12 leaving Earth's orbit on last week's interstellar mission.” Yakov gestured lamely to the immense holographic display, which depicted the Collective’s most awe-inspiring spacecraft, nishigori 12. It was piloted by the famed Yuko Nishigori, who, as the vehicle’s name would suggest, was a 12th generation Nishigori pilot. Her Birthline has been the front-most pioneer space-travel for decades, and the Collective’s first choice for testing it’s latest innovations.

“Who wrote the Translation for this feature?” Yakov asked plainly, enunciating in that odd way tends to when he's particularly put upon. The man always reminded Victor of an android - large and taciturn and probably equipped with the ability to kill with a look alone. 

“Ah, m-me, I did.” Yuuri answered, raising his hand timidly. 

“Is this accurate to your description, Yuuri?”

“Yes.” The older man turned away and moved to continue. 

“Except . . .” 

He glanced sharply at Yuuri who clamped his mouth shut, brown eyes wide like he deeply regretted even getting out of bed that morning. 

Yakov cleared his throat pointedly. “Did you have something to add, Katsuki?”

“I . . . it’s just . . . the rocket's fission thrusters are cylindrical . . . and-and these appear, um . . .” Yakov continued to stare at him. Everyone stared at him. 

“ . . . triangular.” 

After another short, yet deep and uncomfortable silence, Yakov coughed awkwardly and went to amend his mistake, EditPen gripped tight. “Thank you. I'll change that.” And the tension was lost, the rest of the History Makers relaxing back into their chairs and watching intently as Yakov carefully redrew the thrusters. But Victor continued to stare. 

And stare. 

Yuuri was apparently too caught up in whatever he was thinking about to pay him any attention, large eyes downcast and teeth worrying his bottom lip . . . turning it from rosy pink to red . . . Victor blinked as he watched the apple of Yuuri’s throat bob dangerously. The Illustrator shifted uncomfortably and deliberate in turning his gaze back to where Yakov was continuing his presentation. Something was off about today. 

########

The courtyard was bright with bright, artificial sunshine that afternoon as the History Makers took Second Meal together, their small tribe all settling the on the day’s special to simplify the order. Once everyone was armed with sustenance, Victor led them to eight Eating trays at the Northeast corner of the courtyard, closest to the window so they could have some real semblance of the still-rising sunrise. Emil helped him arrange the chairs and attached trays into a circle so they wouldn’t have to crane their necks to see one another.

“Sara is back from conception duty.” Guang-Hong said quietly once they had all settled. Leo quirked his head, politely inquisitive and Guang-Hong continued. “She got back yesterday.” He continued. He’d obviously been sitting on the news for a while and it was clear how pleased sharing it made him. 

“She had a defect.” Michele responded simply. It couldn’t be seen, but one could feel the slight pause in everyone’s movements at the statement. Guang-Hong’s lips parted slightly. 

“How do you know?” The younger History Maker asked, mirroring Victor’s look of curiosity. 

“She told me.” Michele answered slowly. And then, he turned back to his bowl and tucked into his “Hot Pot”. Emil leaned closer to his partner. 

“Did she have the bug?” The Translator asked so quietly that Victor had to strain to hear it properly. Michele took no such precaution.

Not even bothering to remove his gaze from his meal, he responded, “No. She says she's clean.” The courtyard was suddenly thick with an uncomfortable air. Victor glanced over the others who were suddenly infatuated with their, at one point, unopened lunches. His eyes paused on Yuuri, who was staring intently at his hands, food pushed this way and that around his plate. He cleared his throat and it seemed to break the younger man from his stupor, as he blinked once, twice, three times.

“Where is everyone watching the nishigori 12 landing tomorrow night?” Victor questioned the group, though his eyes stood fixed on the dark-haired Translator. The inquiry did the trick in easing the flow of conversation, Phichit opening his mouth and never properly closing it.

“I'm watching it in bishop park.” Victor let Phichit’s mindless babble fade into the background as he watched Yuuri relax, shoulders slumping ever so gently, and go about eating his lunch. Victor found that Yuuri was an active listener, in that he nodded when it was appropriate and asked questions when he knew speaker would want to elaborate. But it all seemed . . . off. Rehearsed. The two locked eyes and Victor startled, shifting his gaze to where Phichit was still going on about the landing. 

“I'm going to leave work early to get a good seat. If I arrive early enough I can get a seat close to the screen.” When he felt it safe, Victor spared Yuuri another look. He swore he could see a ghost of a smile on his lips. 

########

“OTABEK! OTABEK!” He’s halfway home when he hears the first cries. Victor had just gotten off his first afternoon train and was waiting the connector the took him home. It seemed to happen all at once. Two Health and Safety officers are carrying a dark-haired boy from the 5-j complex across the Center. He’s limp, unconscious in their hold as they walk nimbly to the nearest Speed Port. Victor watches, frozen. Soon they are out of sight, but they are quickly followed by the source of those terrible screams. 

Victor nearly loses his balance. It’s the blonde boy. The one from that morning. Yurio. He’s thrashing and kicking and biting at the Health and Safety members gripping his arms, fighting with all his life. 

‘What is happening?’ Victor wonders. ‘What could he have possibly done to deserve this?’ There’s a sharp crack and Victor looks back to Yurio, now pitifully unmoving and sporting a bright bruise on his pale skin

“Otabek! Ota. Ota . . .” He whimpers, just loud enough to hear, and then he falls unconscious. A more authoritative-looking officer follows the horrifying procession, waving his arms at the crowd of Members. 

“You're in safe hands now folks. Please continue on your way.” He intones soothingly. “Nothing to see here. You’re safe now.” And the crowd of people begins to mill away, shuffling off like cattle. But Victor stays, glued to the spot. He wanted to leave, to join the crowd of his peers, who now acted as if they hadn't seen a thing. Wanted to feign ignorance as they did so easily. But, something inside of him lurched at the mere thought. This couldn't go unnoticed. At least, not by him. Never.

########

The breeze was cold, sharp as it cut across his cheeks. He’d never been up this high before, at least not without some sort of barrier or safety bar. Here there was nothing.

He stepped onto the ledge. 

Below lied grass and sparse outcroppings of trees in stone planters. The sunrise was still hiding behind the horizon.

He fell.

The ground rushed up at him. A lake that he didn't see before opens it’s great jaws to swallow him up. 

He screams. 

########

His throat is raw by the time his body hits the ground, connecting with hardwood floors with a resounding slam. Victor scrambles, struggling to find purchase on anything: the ground, reality, his sanity. 

A scary, unknown thing inside him tells him to “Run! Run, get out!” And so he does as told, unable to focus on anything but that voice. He runs and bangs his head on something, he doesn’t see what, and it lays him flat out on the ground. 

As he stares at the ceiling, he can feel the throbbing on his forehead that will quickly become a bruise. Just like the one Yurio had when he was taken. Victor screws his eyes shut. No. No, don’t think about it. But, it was no use. His mind rebelliously filled with images of Yurio, red-faced and screeching, tears running down his once porcelain cheeks. Victor’s breath began to quicken and it only scared him further.

What is this? What is this?


	2. known to few

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The human soul is hungry for beauty; we seek it everywhere - in landscape, music, art, and in ourselves. When we experience the beautiful, there is a sense of homecoming.”
> 
> \- John O'Donohue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! I'm gonna try to be regular with my updates, but, we've all heard that story before, haven't we. Anyways, I'll try my best! I hope you enjoy and please comment if you do. 
> 
> \- stormxpilotxtrash <3

“The following is an update on last night's disturbance in living block 5-j,” A loud voice chimed as Victor sat twiddling his thumbs on the morning train. His head still ached terribly from the whirlwind of the day before. He’d done his best to conceal the bruise the bruise the now resided on his forehead and made it’s way down to just under his right eye. He even spent an extra 10 minutes in front of the mirror, fixing his bangs this way and that. But it was no use; the purple-looking blemish seemed determined to make itself known to anyone who even glanced in Victor direction. 

“Health and Safety officials subdued two individuals engaged in Coupling activities, and both have been transported to the Defective, Emotional, Neuropathy facility, the DEN, for containment and emotional suppression treatment.” The forlorned faces of two young men filled the monitor: Yurio Plisetsky and Otabek Altin. Victor felt his chest squeeze sharply at the sight of them, standing there, clear as day, for all the Collective to see. 

“The incident is an outbreak of defective behavior.” The display continued and Victor shifted in his seat, leaning closer to the holographic screen.

“Remember, Couplers are a danger to themselves and to all of us. Physical contact, touching, or displays of emotion are signs of an individual infected with S.O.S. If you see the signs, report the Couplers to Health and Safety immediately. Let's do our part to contain this dangerous epidemic.”

#############

“The bombs dropped for the span of 28 days and obliterated 99.6% of usable arid land on the earth's surface. It was an event that changed the course of humankind forever, and now known as the great war.” Yakov explained in his usual monotone during that morning's History Seminar (A weekly briefing on the general history of the Founders only the History Makers had the “privilege” of receiving). Yakov continued to drone on and Victor sighed and then blinked. 

He definitely needed to see a Healer. He used to thoroughly take pleasure in the Seminars. Now though . . . Now his gaze was fixed on Yuuri Katsuki’s profile; his ears, his small, pert nose, and the way his adam’s apple bobbed as he engaged in conversation. Victor closed his eyes. Tight.

“Of the two tracts of land that survived the great war -” A large flash of black and flew past the window before Yakov could finish his droning. 

“Did anybody see that?” He asked, making his way to the window and looking down at the courtyard, stricken. 

“See what?” Phichit came to Yakov side just as quickly, hurrying to stand by the window as the others followed suit. They peered down at the body that now laid still in the courtyard, as if frozen in time.

The man’s suit was a pale, pale white in contrast to the blood that surrounded him, pooling spectacularly around where his head had first made contact with the ground. His pitch black hair was visible even from the Cultural Branch’s high perch and flew out in all directions like some sort of sick, pitiful crown. After a few moments of stunned silence, the History Makers, one by one, ventured to break it.

“That's unfortunate.” Yakov murmured, swaying forward to look closer. 

“He's already dead.” Michele said quietly. “Anyone recognize him?”

Several answers of “Not sure” and “Don't think so” echoed through their troupe but Victor couldn’t find the words to respond. He couldn’t find the words to think. 

“That's our first jumper in a while. His head was no match for that concrete.” Minako’s tone was conversational, which made Victor feel odd and shivery, a sensation he greatly disliked. 

There was another silence before Leo piped up. “I just remembered there was a suicide in my building last night, a woman slit her own throat.” There it was again: that feeling of some slithery, slimy thing wrapping itself around his spine.

Mila shrugged and said nonchalantly, “I hope they find someone to cover his work.” And the others nodded their heads and went to return to the conference table, Yakov gathering his things so as to carry on with the seminar. 

But Yuuri remained, his vibrant eyes still unflinchingly fixed on the body that laid unmoving on the concrete 24 floors below. His fists were tight at his sides, veins visible underneath his skin. It was then that Victor noticed that the younger man hadn’t said a thing in reaction to the man’s suicide; he’d stayed completely silent. When he took a step toward Yuuri, the man flinched and took a step backward. He looked at Victor with wide eyes that tugged at Victor’s chest. He was about to say something (anything) when Mila turned in her chair to Victor.

“Where were you the other night, Victor?” She asked, blankly, as if she hadn’t just been witness to man’s death less 5 minutes before and Victor blanched. He had forgotten they had made plans to reserve seats for the nishigori 12 broadcast together.

“I went to the cafeteria to drink some tea.” He lied and resisted the urge to wince at the way his voice turned up at the end, like it was a question instead of a statement. 

“Is that where you got the bruise?” 

She was probing him. Victor’s hand tapped gingerly at the purple that dripped down his right cheekbone. ‘Oh,’ Victor thought. ‘That.’ He glanced at Yuuri briefly, who seemed even more stiff than he had moments before, if that were even possible.

“No . . .” Victor scrambled for a reasonable answer to her question, for any answer. He settled on: “Last night in tai chi class, the man next to me accidentally struck me-”

“Victor, you weren't in tai chi class last night.” She was insistent. Victor, now panicked, and trying to think about how world he was going to backtrack out of this when he heard a surprisingly strong voice break in: “Yes he was.” 

Yuuri’s face was suddenly firm and sure as he continued, “I saw him.” Mila, surprised merely by the force in his tone, dropped the subject and turned round again after another few beats, hesitant. Yuuri locked eyes with Victor and gave him a firm nod and a small, tentative quirk of his lips. It sent Victor reeling and he was glad that Illustration was kept in the confines of a chair, as his knees were wobbly with adrenaline. 

Yuuri Katsuki had . . . defended him. Lied for him. For no reason at all. 

############

“While scientists are making great strides in understanding this debilitating condition, a reliable cure for S.O.S. has yet to be found. Most S.O.S. Sufferers will experience complete emotional disability in as little as four to six months. Prior to eventual containment at the DEN, KappaRho inhibitors offer a reliable means of dampening symptoms, and slowing the stages of the disease. Thus allowing sufferers to maintain -”

 

"What stage?"

Victor had been sitting in the Healer’s waiting room for exactly 15 minutes after getting off work before his thoughts were abruptly called to a halt. A blonde man with piercing green eyes was staring at him brightly as if he had not just started a conversation, out of the blue. Almost every conversation Victor ever engaged in started with “Hello”. Nothing more, nothing less. 

"Excuse me?" He asked.

"What stage are you?" The other man repeated. Was he being serious? No one talks about S.O.S. openly like that. It was . . . inappropriate. Wrong. The man sat looking at him attentively, blinking his incredibly long eyelashes, now looking at Victor like he understood everything that had just went through his head and he found it amusing. 

"Oh, I'm just here for a check up." He clarified. "Strictly precautionary."

"I'm Chris." The blonde man introduced, offering his hand. Victor tried not to show his hesitation when he returned the favor and shook it. 

"Victor." Chris grinned, the sides of his mouth turning up and making his face look predatory. He suddenly remembered the man’s original line of questioning and thought it only polite to return the inquiry. "What stage are you?" he asked, slightly perturbed by the wobble in his voice. 

Chris, however, seemed unaffected and answered casually. "Two."

"You look healthy." Victor noted and Chris’ lip quirked again, small, like they had just shared an inside joke. Except Victor was very much on the outside. 

"Well, I have my good days and bad days." Chris had barely finished his sentence when a call rang out for him to see the Healer.

"Victor?"

"Good luck." Chris murmured as Victor stood and he couldn't find it in himself to respond. He nodded his acknowledgement instead and followed the woman who had called his name. 

##########

“ . . . the ground was rushing toward me. I couldn't breath. I felt like my stomach was-” Victor broke off from his explanation to collect himself, to slow his steadily increasing heartbeat. “Like my stomach was in my mouth. It was extremely unpleasant.” Healer Morooka gazes at him with a look that does nothing for his nerves and makes his stomach churn further.

“You had a nightmare, Victor.” Healer Morooka says slowly, calmly, like he was a child. Victor blinks. A nightmare? “I never want to experience anything like it again.” 

“How long have you had these symptoms?” The older man asked, voice smooth and soothing.

Victor thought back. “Maybe two days? No longer than that.” Healer Morooka pursed his lips and then after a moment, he seemed to come to a decision. 

“I'm going to take some blood now. Can you give me your hand please, Victor?” Victor nodded and offered his arm to the man, who promptly inserted the bio-syringe into his vein and removing at least a quarter pint of blood. Victor head swam briefly, but the sensation left as quickly as it came, the bio-fluid that laced the needle doing its job splendidly. Healer Morooka turned and entered the blood into some sort of machine that hummed lowly for a few minutes before pinging out its results. 

He held his breath. Morooka turned and held up a small holo-display. 

The words, “Stage One”, flashed dimly.

“Your test is positive, Victor.” Victor’s breath seemed stuck in his chest. “You're only Stage One.” He cast about for a reason, an explanation. He’d been careful. Very careful. Especially careful. So how could . . .

“A woman in my office recently gave birth to a defect, I . . . I couldn't have caught it from her. Not if she's clean, right?” He asked, almost frantically. 

“Even if this woman did have S.O.S. It isn't contagious.” Victor didn’t know what to say that, but Morooka seemed to understand. “I'd like to start you on a full course of KappaRho inhibitors immediately. There's no reason why you shouldn't be able to live a normal life. At least for a while -”

“Then the DEN.” Victor interrupted, the coldness in his voice startling even him. Healer Morooka seemed taken aback for a beat, but he regained his composure. 

“. . . You mustn't think about that for now. The den is a long way off for you.  
A cure is right around the corner.” 

But, Victor wasn’t listening anymore.

#############

He had missed the night train. Victor found himself walking about the Center aimlessly, never stopping, just letting his feet move him to where they led. There was no curfew, not for a man his age, but it was still quite late. And cold. The Collective turned off the outdoor heaters at later hours to discourage any night-dwellers, but even the biting breeze wouldn’t turn him from his pilgrimage. 

Quite by chance, he found himself at the doorstep of the GPF building. Victor hesitated for a moment, before stepping into the Elevator Lounge. Soon he was 24 floors high and sitting at his interface, sketching at his skater Illustration like there was no tomorrow; like there was no anything except him and his EditPen and the sound of silence. 

#############

A chime rang out. Victor started awake. One of the Interface’s was ringing, most likely with a message from the Collective. He focused in on the source and found it was coming from 2 Interfaces over. Yuuri Katsuki’s interface. 

Victor padded over as best he could in the dark, bumping into a screen there, a chair here, before finding himself sat in front of Yuuri’s screen. It was open. Had he been there while Victor slept? Or had he simply forgotten to turn it off? Victor’s head thrummed with possibility and worry, so he dropped it and set about turning off the alarm. He found the message in question and tapped it with his right index finger, but he must have been too lethargic in his movement, as that simply triggered even more noise. 

A voice, Yuuri’s voice, more strong and sure than he had ever heard erupted from the Interface’s speakers: “It's this vastness, inaccessibility, symmetry, and the permanence of the night sky that made it a natural topic for philosophers pursuing the understanding of ultimate reality.” 

It was an excerpt from the Space Travel Translation Yuuri had written for Yakov. Victor went to turn it off, to stop it repeating, but found himself lost in the way Yuuri spoke. Lost the lilt of his tone and the way words seemed to melt off his tongue so effortlessly.

“It's this vastness, inaccessibility, symmetry . . .” 

Again. 

“. . . the understanding of ultimate reality.”

Again.

 

“ . . . and permanence of the night sky that made it a natural topic for philosophers . . .”

And again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts? Questions? Comment!

**Author's Note:**

> Thoughts? Questions? Comment!


End file.
